


Blood

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dom/sub, Erotica, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Incest, Love/Hate, The Quidditch Pitch: More Than Two, Threesome, Tragedy, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-25
Updated: 2005-11-25
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Written from Draco’s POV, set during and after the events portrayed in Til The Morning Comes, which wasbluerose16’s Christmas fic. It’s fitting then, that this isluzkun’s Christmas present. Beta-read quickly bydarkasphodel, so any remaining mistakes are mine and not hers as she is wonderful *loffs on Lils*.





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Implied Draco/Pansy, Pansy/Millicent and Draco/Fred/George  
 **Warnings:** Character death, incest, themes of dominance and submission, necrophilia  


* * *

It is chilly in the stone chamber.  
  
The deep-set windows are open, and the grey ocean is heaving, pounding against the looming castle walls as though it could break in and sweep away all traces of impurity.  
  
Draco stares out the window. The chill implacability of the ocean is reflected in his eyes as he waits, ignoring the wind that snatches at his cloak with teasing fingers.  
  
Behind him, he can hear Pansy whimpering as she quails on the floor, and he turns impatiently. How dare she presume, why should he spare her? Past bonds mean nothing now. He dismisses the excuses Pansy is awkwardly stuttering out. Far better for her if she’d taken up the role she’d been groomed for since childhood. No. Bulstrode is where the trouble originates. All her strength is from Pansy. Look at her, standing straight and tall, trying not to quiver, the betraying tremble of the lower lip, the too-bright eyes.  
  
In that instant, Draco seizes his wand from his sleeve and touches Pansy’s forehead, almost gently.  
  
 _”Avada Kedavra.”_ The words stick in his throat. Pleasure from Pansy’s death seems almost sacrilegious, but he forces the thought down, burying it under layers of memories – Pansy whirling at the Yule Ball, her eyes bright and her mouth open in laughter – Pansy, hand on hip, telling him off for playing in the mud at her fourth birthday party – her fingers, delicate on his arm, fingernails perfectly painted – brown eyes which he’s always imagined –  
  
No.  
  
Absently, Draco restrains Bulstrode with a gesture as he kisses Pansy goodbye. The move is almost a benediction, a blessing. He thinks how ironic it must be, the man worshipping the one girl he could never truly possess. Until now. Indeed, how can you possess someone more thoroughly than by ushering them out of the world? The thought excites him, raising his flagging spirits.  
  
Energised, he strides out of the chamber, leaving behind the two broken figures. They hold no interest for him now, tattered and beaten as they are. It is the breaking that excites him, the moment at which one hears the faint dislocation of spirit from reality. The sound he heard from Bulstrode at the instant he killed Pansy.  
  
The stairs to his chamber he takes two at a time, revelling in the feeling of his body, the beat of his pulse in his ears, the brush of his erection against his stomach.  
  
The toys will be ready for him.  
  
And he knows just how best to break them.  
  
He has a sense of foreboding as he lightly pushes on the wooden door, muttering the unlocking charms under his breath. A finger of cold raises the fine blonde hairs on the back of his neck, and a draught swirls his robes around his feet. Perhaps he should return to the audience chamber, and see that Pansy is at least granted a decent burial, with the rites appropriate to one of her station. Turning, he is about to make for the stairs when he feels his cock give an impatient twitch.  
  
Well. No sense in putting off this pressing pleasure, is there? Pansy’s dead; she won’t be going anywhere. Lingering pleasure like that is best enjoyed with no other… distractions.  
  
The cloak billows behind him satisfactorily as he strides into the room. One toy cringes on the floor under the window, a pleasing position, he notes absently, as his eyes scan the room for the other.  
  
Pale limbs tangle with the linen sheets, the only visible difference between expanses of milky skin and creamy linen the irregularly blotched freckles dappled across every inch of the exposed skin.  
  
An indrawn breath marks his admiration for the sight. The dappled perfection on the bed is yawning sleepily, hair mussed in red snarls around its face. Three steps bring Draco to the edge of the bed, wand already in his hand.  
  
 _”Crucio.”_ It jerks, limbs flailing, mouth open in a silent scream. He cancels the spell with a nonchalant flip of a hand, watching in fascination as red pools at the side of its mouth, to drip steadily onto the counterpane.  
  
He whispers the words of the killing curse again, mentally reproaching himself. Dramatics are best left behind with other cast-off toys of childhood.  
  
The flash of green light is mercifully brief, sparing his eyes from the green intensity that never fails to remind him of the true enemy. The one who opposes all that is right, and just. The boy who has dared establish himself as the saviour of the wizarding world. Draco snorts. Saviour of what? Saving wizards from progress? From new ideas? Better that they should be delivered from him, reborn through fire. Only the strong should survive. The weak, the useless, those who have mingled their blood – they will be burnt off as the dross from the strong metal beneath.  
  
The coppery smell of blood brings Draco out of his reverie. The toy has bitten through its tongue in its death throes, and the red lining its mouth makes Draco suddenly hungry.  
  
The other toy, less well trained, is whimpering in the corner. But for the fact it is alive, and trembling, it is an exact replica of the broken toy sprawled on the bed, limbs akimbo and face contorted. Draco curses himself momentarily for forgetting which one was more malleable, less expendable.  
  
He grabs the living toy roughly, twisting its arms behind its back and the clinking sound of the manacles around its ankles send darts of pleasure down his spine. It whines in his grip, straining slightly to get away from him.  
  
Draco forces it in front of him, sliding his erection against one of its hips. It wails at the sight of its twin, fingers frantically scrabbling for purchase against the invisible barrier Draco has conjured.  
  
He steps back, enjoying the control he has over the moment. The almost artistic way the body of the dead toy lies across the bed, pale on pale. Against such a background, the coppery blood dims even the brightness of the knotted hair. Draco’s gaze switches to the other toy, huddled on the floor next to his invisible barrier. It has its arms wrapped around its knees and appears to be rocking to an arrhythmically hummed tune.  
  
Draco twitches the skin on his back. How much time has passed? He crosses to the bed. The skin of the dead toy is cold, the blood congealed in a sticky crimson pool. He snaps his fingers. The living toy ignores him. Allowing his wand to slide into his hand, he murmurs a soft _Cruci_ o under his breath. The toy stops its rocking, shrinking in upon itself as though it can escape the agony that way. A sharp puff of air signals Draco’s derision for this action, and he snaps his fingers once more.  
  
Although still under the curse, the toy does its best to scrabble to his side on its hands and knees. As it kneels by his side, Draco caresses its chin and ears roughly with one hand.  
  
He sharply pulls the toy to its feet by its hair, pulling it until it stands beside its twin. It is forced to lick away the blood from its twins face and the counterpane, until Draco is satisfied that every last trace is removed.  
  
It is only then that Draco removes his clothing. He is still hard, the erection now nudging insistently against his belly. Three steps carry him to the bed, and he shoves aside the living toy to sit astride the dead one.  
  
He motions the living toy to kneel between his brother’s splayed open legs.  
  
Draco leans forward, blond hairs brushing the toy’s chest, and takes him in his mouth. He licks and nuzzles, using every device at his disposal to arouse the still-living toy.  
  
Once he feels they are both sufficiently aroused, he guides the toy further up the bed. The cool, clammy skin of the dead toy underneath him turns him on even more, and as he forces the living to penetrate the dead, he takes his erection in his hand.  
  
Draco shudders and comes, sticky whiteness spilling out over his fingers as the rhythmical movements of the body under him continues. He holds his hand to the living toy’s mouth, and it carefully licks off all traces of semen. As the last droplet of creamy white vanishes on the pointed red tongue, a flash of green obliterates life.  
  
He steps off the bed, and retrieves fresh clothes from the chest. Dressing, he pauses now and then to examine the spectacle of the two men, locked together in death as he so often saw them in life.  
  
He’s in a hurry. He will be expected.  
  
As he apparates from the silent chamber, he realises something is missing. He feels incomplete. The brother. Knowing it’s too late, but helpless to resist, he crosses to the bed, closing the eyes, as familiar to him as his own.  
  
He drops a kiss on the unlined forehead, leaving behind only the print of a bloody hand on the counterpane, an unspoken promise.


End file.
